Stained
by WizardsGirl
Summary: He had torn into the world with a snarl and blood, the last desperate moments of his previous life haunting his mind even as he shoved them away. He would not fall prey to that weakness again. He would live on, and he would THRIVE. May the blood of his enemies coat his skin and stain him black, for he would not fall again. OC Reincarnation fic Because it's my Birthday and I can.


**A/N:** IT'S MY BIRTHDAY AND I'LL TYPE WHAT I WANT TO

 **Stained**

.1.

He was born whole and snarling, pulled from the blackened earth alongside his brethren with a fist flying and fang bared. His form was tall and broad, similar to the Uruk-Hai, fierce and vicious and smarter than average. His packmates, those pulled from the tainted loam of Mordor's chambers, are average and cruel in their hatred but stupid and greedy and easily dispatched when they forget their place.

He earns his name in a battle against those pathetic lesser orcs, using hands alone to tear them apart and coat his already abnormally dark skin with their black blood.

He is Mormau the Stained, coated in blackened skin the same color of the blood of his brethren, and he is quickly given better armor and weapons and sent away, to be taken in by the Defiler and follow his orders, as one of the few welcoming into the Uruk-Hai that are not born into it, and he will bathe in the blood of those who oppose him.

None shall ever know the warring memories within his mind, doused with blackened blood and gnashing fangs. Memories of being a weak, pathetic little Man with brown skin and weak lungs that left him gasping after a few moments running. Of one who was called _Jayson_ who wanted nothing more than to prove he was more than his disease, but only died in the attempt, at two decades old, attempting to run in a marathon, only to suffer an attack and find his _In-Haler_ empty. He had died, suffocating from his own body, weak and desperate and furious, and Mormau had torn from the earth with that desperation transmuting to a rage so bright it made his unusually pale green eyes glow like a Wargs in dim lighting.

Mormau would never let that pathetic creature he once was touch him now. His reputation was of a vicious, blood-hungry creature that blended with shadows and darkness until only his eyes gave him away, who was quick in body and attack, cruel and fierce and more than willing to destroy his enemies.

A far cry from the weak, diseased creature he'd been before, and he would stay that way.

Pale green eyes gleamed eerily as he stalked through the caverns towards the Warg Nests, looking for a mount of his own. He would be leaving to join Azog the Defiler's Pack within ten days, a two month trip, and he would be alone the entire time. If he died on the way, than he deserved it.

But he wouldn't.

Eyeing the snarling, growling forms of the bitch Wargs as they curled their massive forms over their whelps, he walked slowly, steadily through the chamber, the male Wargs moving about well away from the nests, their instincts keeping them from doing something as stupid as approaching their larger, more vicious counterparts when they were ten times more likely to kill them.

The last nest is what caught Mormau's eye, a small, sickly seeming bitch who still snarled up at him with furious, gleaming gray eyes, her black and brown mottled coat matted with filth and rotting gore from what looked like the remains of one of the males. Only a single whelp curled against her side, the remains of two others rotting, untouched, to the side. It was healthy enough, a little small for the age it appeared, but that was likely due to its mother's size, more on par for a male than a female of their kind. It's ears were larger, more rounded, and Mormau picked out the characteristic square-shape of the Gundabad breed, but it's pelt was black-gray, looking metallic in the flickering torchlight, speckles of gold gleaming throughout its pelt, gained from the mother's spotted Mordor breeding.

Reaching for the whelp, Mormau smacked the bitch's muzzle sharply when she snapped at him, snatching the whelp's scruff and lifting it, listening to it high-itched, furious snarl with a smirk as he turned it about to eye it, it's large ears pinned back and milk-teeth bared. It was male, with pale amber Gundabad eyes, and Mormau nodded.

"This one," he muttered out loud, dropping the whelp back into its mothers nest, the smell of rot stirred freshly into the air as the bitch snatched the whelp from the air and huddled him under her belly, hunched over him with a furious snarl and bared teeth. Without hesitation, Mormau reached forward, slapped her muzzle when she snapped at him, and gave her a rough scratched on the head, before using the black ink he'd carried with him to place his hand-print on the wall under the torch nearest the nest, claiming both mother and whelp as his own.

When he left, he would take both, and, once the whelp was weaned, he would be Mormau's mount and the mother would either be killed, given for breeding in Lord Azog's Warg Nests, or kept, should she prove of use.

 **.2.**

Mormau named the bitch Burzmoavhas, and the whelp Tarbam. Since claiming them, he'd made sure that the two were well fed, at times dragging the pathetic maggots that challenged him to the Wargs Nests himself, and sawing off pieces of the screaming wretches to toss to the two. Tarbam had already grown stronger, grown to associate Mormau with stern slaps, food, and the occasional scratch, while Burzmoavhas had only relaxed enough to stop snapping at him. The bitch new he was keeping them fed and well.

When the time to leave came, Mormau left Mordor with Tarbam over his lap and Burzmoavhas beneath him, the small bitch unusually fast as she swept through the mountainside towards Dol Guldur.

The times spent alone, with only the two Wargs, was surprisingly cathartic. Mormau had time to let his temper at the memories of Before die down, to organize those thoughts. _Jayson_ had been an intelligent man-child, had learned things about his world that, while they had no true meaning on Mormau's World, still taught him things. And the emotions linked to specific memories, while irritating, were not something he couldn't use. After all, feeling the anguish _Jayson_ felt at his Dam's death, as if it was his own, would aide him should Mormau ever hold an enemies loved one captive.

Then again, the constant memories of being helpless and weak and betrayed by his own body, were all things the Orc could do without.

The Brown Lands, desolate, lifeless expanse that is was, proved to be a good place to train Tarbam and Burzmoavhas in various signals. The bitch knew a few, but Mormau was determined to be the _only_ Master of his Wargs, and trained them in a few gestures and words that only _Jayson_ had known, hand signals for 'fetch' and 'play dead' and 'seek' were things that Orc's did not have, or, at least, not those born and bred in Mordor itself. Perhaps Gundabad did, perhaps elsewhere.

It was nice to have only the Wargs and their lessons to focus on, watching Tarbam grow stronger and bigger, until the young Warg could run alongside his faster mother, tongue lolling gleefully.

The end of the Brown Lands brought with it the return of Prey, and, immediately, the three set to hunting, and came upon a middling-sized group of scrawny, pathetic orcs and goblins that were about to feast a group of Elves they had apparently gotten the drop on. Pretty little blonds that bore the mark of Mirkwood, gagged and bound and beaten.

Mormau and _Jayson_ both hadn't been one to deny a pretty face.

 **.3.**

" _Halt_!" One of the Orcs snarled, the others scrambling to their feet and the goblins hissing ans squealing in surprise as the group armed themselves as Tarbam and Burzmoavhas lunged out of the shadows with vicious snarls, Mormau silent as the grave while he eyed the pitiful group with his eerily gleaming eyes.

"Name yourself, maggot!" One of the worthless worms ordered in a high-pitched, nasally voice, and, with a graceful movement, the Uruk-Hai dismounted the small bitch and stood, towering over the gathered worms. He smiled slowly, baring his teeth cruelly as he stretched his arms out in a mocking gesture.

"I am Mormau the Stained," he rumbled out, the Black Tongue coiling from his tongue like a snake. "And you shall sustain me on my journey." With a sharp whistle, Tarbam and Burzmoavhas were lunging towards the goblins and Mormau was leaping after the nearest orc, using his immense strength to rip the pathetic creature apart, its dying scream a beautiful echo to the splatter of black blood against the reincarnated orc's skin, making the haze of battle and bloodlust swarm him even as he calculated his next movements.

The battle was over in twenty minutes, at most, his Wargs gorging themselves on the remains of their victims and Mormau coated head-to-toe in the black blood of his own kind. The elves remained unharmed, spattered with blood themselves and unable to get themselves free despite their many attempts. Tarbam crept towards them and Mormau moved, swatting the half-grown whelp sharply and making the 'no' gesture with a sharp look. The young Warg immediately turned his attention back to his meal, and Mormau turned his onto his prizes.

Pretty, pretty things, bright blond and cold eyed and ready to face his wrath with head's held high even on their knees.

Such fierceness, such pride.

With a low, rumbling chuckle, Mormau pulled the single dagger he held from it's sheath and flashed the clean, untainted metal at them. With a flash of movement, he had the three of them untied and free, smiling ferally as his Wargs lifted their heads to watch as the Elves pulled away quickly from him.

"Best start running, pretties," the Uruk-Hai crooned at them in Westron, chuckling lowly. "If we find you again, I'll paint myself red instead of black, and my Wargs will learn what sweet elf-flesh tastes like." He licked his own untouched fangs, grinning cruelly at them as the elves eyed him and his Wargs sharply before disappearing into the night. Tarbam whined after them, a curious sound, and Mormau clucked softly, settling the Warg, even as the reincarnated Orc took a seat on the cooling corpse of the leader of the pathetic Pack, pulling a tattered bag that had obviously belonged to the elves closer. It had been rummaged through already, the pretty green back stained with filth, but inside he found his prize.

Lounging on his enemies corpse, Mormau watched as his Wargs began to play, tossing goblin limbs back and forth and rolling in the blood and filth. Slowly, he began to eat the broken, dirty cram he'd found in the bag.

The only thing he hated more than the memories of helplessness _Jayson_ had given him, was the 'weakness' in his stomach, that meant eating meat left him ill and cramping and spewing from both ends. He did not need to eat as often as his brethren, but at times when he was hungry, it was very hard to find sustenance.

The cram would fill him for days.

Settling into a more comfortable position so that he could doze while his Wargs played, Mormau set his mind to ease, at least temporarily. Come the morrow, they would ride the rest of the way to Dol Guldur, to meet Azog and pledge to his Pack.

Until then, they would rest, an wait.

He was in no hurry.

 **A/N:** IT'S MY BIRTHDAY AND I'LL WRITE WHAT I WANT TO

So here's a random NON-CROSSOVER lotr/Hobbit fic with a reincarnated person who is (Le Gasp) NOT A HOBBIT, ELF, OR DWARF!

(Or Wizard, or Man, or Dragon, or Fairy or anything -_-)

(No, seriously, where are the bad-guy reincarnations?)

Here is my very own ORC OC who was once a smart guy with horrible asthma and bad luck with a stomach issue that made it literally impossible to eat meat. Mormau didn't get the asthma, but he got the stomach issue, not that anyone is gonna call it out or anything.

Review please! ^-^

 **BLACK SPEECH TRANSLATION**

 **Mormau**

 **Mor** \- Black

 **Mau** \- Warrior

(I didn't like any of the names the Generators offered so I made one out of the Black Speech (Shrugs))

 **Burzmoavhas**

 **Burz** \- Dark

 **Moavhas** \- Mother

 **Tarbam** \- Fury


End file.
